


meet the family

by miss_belivet



Series: the wonder poison archive [9]
Category: Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Humor, Meet the Family, Post-Movie(s), Texting, a snarky immortal wife with a rather high body count, in which diana forgets to mention that she has a wife throughout the events of Justice League (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-02-28 08:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13267590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_belivet/pseuds/miss_belivet
Summary: Diana's new colleagues meet her immortal, reformed-supervillain wife.(For anon on tumblr, who suggested a WonderPoison drabble with “damn auto-correct...”)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read any Wonder Woman/Dr. Poison fics before, I recommend reading the short oneshot _[nearby](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11089338)_ first in order to get a bit of backstory, but it isn't necessary!

"Welcome home."

Isabel is waiting for her in the formal parlor just inside the door, seemingly relaxed in a high, wingback chair with a tablet in her lap. Her feet are resting on the coffee table, thick socks slipping against smooth glass as she sits up to peer around the chair, a wry grin on her lips.

"Did you bring me any samples?"

The painting on the wall above the fireplace has been lifted, revealing the television behind it, and a news station runs continuous footage of parademons and Steppenwolf, Superman and Wonder Woman. Diana sees herself getting thrown into a thick marble monument and winces at the memory; trying to subdue Kal-El without provoking him into slaughtering the rest of the team had not been pleasant. Isabel pauses the DVR with a few taps on her tablet, freezing the video on an image of Lois Lane, and stands, stretching.

The little groan she makes when tilting her head back is enticing, as is the way she raises her arms above her head and lifts herself onto her toes. Diana knows what Isabel is doing, knows she has a history of weakening her resolve toward her calculating wife whenever she arches her back like that, and stands her ground.

"There are plenty of parademon specimens waiting for you in Bruce Wayne's lab in Gotham."

Isabel's arms fall to her sides. She turns on the balls of her feet, and Diana struggles to suppress a smile at the repulsed look on her face.

"I already told him that I knew a scientist willing to examine the remains," she continues. "And that she may develop a weapon to control them, should they ever return."

Isabel's nose is still pinched, her mouth pursed, but Diana sees the glint in her eyes at the prospect of creating something new. She is predictable, her little, conniving wife.

Diana sets the duffel bag holding her armor on the floor. She crosses the room in a few steps, slipping her hands beneath Isabel's cardigan and pulling her closer, kissing the top of her head fondly. Isabel stays stiff in her grasp, but her head falls to rest against Diana's collar, and Diana knows she is considering it.

"Very well." She pats at the pockets of the coat Diana is wearing, searching, and Diana waits until her wife makes a thorough search of the back pockets of her jeans before laughing. Isabel huffs and pulls back, the blush on her cheeks incongruous with the scowl on her face, and holds out her hand. "Give me your phone."

Diana is still snickering when she pulls the phone out of her bag and hands it over to Isabel. Isabel's frown softens, but her brow furrows when she unlocks the phone and begins scrolling. She types something quickly, a little mechanical _whoosh_ alerting Diana that she has sent a text message, and places the phone on the table.

"I should go find my old notes." She heads for the door, but then pauses, considering something. Her head turns, just enough that Diana can see the smirk lifting up her lips, a pretty, sharp smile taking the place of what was once a gaping scar. "Go shower off the lingering stench of demon sweat, and I'll give you a _proper_  welcome when I'm done in the study."

Diana rolls her eyes, a fond smile on her lips, and lifts her phone off of the table as a new alert _pings_  and illuminates the lock screen. She would have to give her armor a thorough scouring to rid their home of the smell, but she knows—from experience now—that Isabel far prefers her own shampoo to the heavily scented soaps that Alfred keeps stocked in Bruce's guest suites.

Her phone _pings_ , and she swipes it open.

 

 ~~~~ **WONDER WOMAN (22:09)** I will be in Gotham tomorrow evening. Do not even breathe in the direction of those specimens without me after what you did to Clark Kent, you unforgivable morons.  
**CYBORG (22:10)** Damn Diana... autocorrect?

 

 _Oh, for.._. Diana huffs and types her reply as she slings her duffel bag over her shoulder and makes her way to the stairs.

 

 ~~~~ **WONDER WOMAN (22:13)** Not autocorrect. Just Isabel.  
**SUPERMAN (22:13)** Isabel?  
**WONDER WOMAN (22:14)**  My wife. I mentioned her when we talked about testing those samples, remember?  
**THE FLASH (22:14)** omfg **  
** **AQUAMAN (22:15)** ................................  
**AQUAMAN (22:15)** does bman know  
**BATMAN (22:16)** I do now.  
**BATMAN (22:34** ) I'll see you two in my lab tomorrow, Diana.  
**THE FLASH (22:52)** holy shit  
**CYBORG (22:53)** Holy shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Isabel is elbow deep in the chest cavity of a parademon when she hears doors beginning to slam in the distance. She looks up through the clear plastic visor shielding her eyes and huffs at Diana; the breath is caught in the cloth mask covering her mouth, so eventually she settles for rolling her eyes instead.

Diana might be content with going home covered in extraterrestrial gore, but Isabel is not.

A quiet snicker reaches her ears, and she shakes her head, her lips tilting upward beneath the mask.

The doors continue slamming, echoing louder and longer as the sound moves closer, and Isabel continues working. When she saws at the ribcage for a few seconds too long, Diana eases on a pair of latex gloves and snaps the bones out of place, leaving Isabel to maneuver it open. With a fond smile, Diana tosses the gloves in a hazmat bin, returns to where she was leaning against a long table, and takes up her iPad, turning her attention back to emails from colleagues at the Louvre and research into long-lost artifacts.

As she cuts through connective tissue, removes the ribs, and begins poking at organs, Isabel is struck—not for the first time—by how strange she and her wife are. An ancient, super-strong, super-fast goddess with a penchant for flying, lifting tanks, and deflecting bullets with her bracelets, and a century-old scientist best known for having a body count nearing one hundred thousand, who was once the object of the goddess's ire.

She once thought strange was being a leading female chemist in a scientific, record-breaking war waged worldwide. She had not anticipated Diana.

An engine revs loudly somewhere in the cave, and she shakes herself from the train of thought, finding a half-full stomach cupped in her palms. Beyond the long row of windows in the lab, a thick wall of metal drops into the ground, and a dark shape rolls by almost too quickly for Isabel to see it. Another metal wall drops just before the shape can crash into it, and then both walls are rising slowly out of the ground again, the shape having vanished.

Her wife clicks her tongue. "Our host has returned."

Isabel squares her shoulders and casts a look at Diana.

Diana looks back, raising a brow.

Isabel grins.

It is her sharp grin, the one that Menalippe used to call _trouble_ when they lived on Themyscira, and Diana's lower lip drops a little bit at the sight of it.

Isabel hurries to drop the stomach and snap off one of her bloody gloves, tossing it blindly at the hazmat bin, and then she shoves her too-long apron aside, reaching for the pocket of her trousers. Diana is too quick for her; Isabel takes a few cautious steps back, into a little enclave of what she mistakenly assumes to be the safety of her small collection of parademon organs in jars, but Diana follows, catching one wrist and then the other in a large, calloused hand. A couple of fingers pinch Isabel's sterile mask and pull it away from her face.

"What are you doing, conniving wife?" Diana's smile is so big, so amused, that the corners of her eyes crinkle, and Isabel cannot help but bark out a laugh as Diana lifts her hand from her pocket. Between her fingers, she is clutching a little vial.

It is empty.

"Did you think I was planning to poison him?" she asks with a touch of malicious joy.

"Drug, yes. Poison, no." Diana's free hand moves to her waist, guiding her into a gentle, playful sway among the gruesome tissue samples, and she shakes her head. The movement is carefree enough that Isabel knows she is not upset with her little trick, but the dancing is worrisome.

"But, my dear..." Isabel begins, and even she can hear the caution creeping into her tone. "They called me Dr. _Poison_. You would doubt me now?"

Diana laughs, loudly and clearly, and the hand around Isabel's wrists disappears. It sweeps the table behind her with a clatter of glass—but no shattering, thankfully—and then both hands are on Isabel's waist, lifting her onto the cold, steel tabletop.

It is such a drastic change from the stressed, strained woman that Diana was in recent weeks that Isabel lets her tilt her back over a jar of intestines and kisses her without complaint.

That is when the lab's heavy door hisses and opens, and two pairs of footsteps come to an abrupt halt. Diana, as is frustratingly typical of the touch-happy Amazons, does not stop kissing Isabel until she pushes against her shoulder.

The younger of the two men clears his throat.

 _Awkwardly,_ Isabel notices, relishing his discomfort despite her own.

"Bruce! Alfred!" Diana greets the new arrivals warmly, taking quick strides across the room on her long legs to clasp both of their hands in her own. Her smile is a bit less bright, a bit more professional, than it was when she was beaming down at Isabel, and if she were anybody else, Isabel knows she would be preening.

"Mister Pennyworth. Mister Wayne." She exchanges a polite nod with the butler as she pushes herself off the table, straightening her trousers and her apron. "My _wife—"_ she emphasizes the word with almost nauseating glee, "—told me all about you, but I did not believe her until I saw this... you call it the Bat Cave? Until I saw this _cave_ for myself."

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Diana staring at her sharply, dangerously, and she resolves not to make eye contact with her wife until she is finished.

"You told her... You told her _everything?"_ Bruce sputters. Isabel thinks he must do it often, because he has perfected the pauses between the stuttering. "Do you have any idea—?"

"Isabel and I do not keep secrets from one another," Diana says, and although her tone is still congenial, the implicit _do not test me_  laced between the words makes even Isabel want to cringe.

Bruce looks disappointed.

 _In himself,_ Isabel hopes, but she does not think he is wise enough to understand the weighty blow that is Diana's disapproval.

"Don't worry. You'll find that I am quite invested in the safety of my wife's identity, so I do not plan to leak any information to the press." Isabel gestures toward the parademon corpse and the specimens in the jars behind her. "And I would like to retain access to these samples, so I suppose I shall keep your secrets as well until Diana agrees smuggle them to _my_ labs."

Bruce looks impressed, infuriated, and disappointed all at once.

Behind him, Alfred clears his throat. "It looks like you have made quite the start without us, Dr. Maru."

Isabel grins. "Don't worry, we still have six more specimens in cold storage. And please, call me Dr. Prince."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabel is a snarky little mad scientist, isn't she?
> 
> But the last line comes from a little headcanoning that @BlueJay_Silvertongue and I did. Isabel would probably try not to draw much attention if she returned to academia after being charged with war crimes and disappearing for a full century, and she just loves to brag that she managed to marry a woman as glorious as Diana, so why wouldn't she call herself Dr. Prince? Diana doesn't quite understand the joy she gets from taking someone else's name—and a fake one, at that!—but it's such a simple thing that she goes along with it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

"Dr. Prince?" 

Victor Stone is used to overzealous scientists poking their noses where they don't belong.

Still, he is rather unnerved by how close this one's nose is to thin slice of parademon brain.

"A pleasure, Mr. Stone," she murmurs, still not having looked up at him. She just continues staring at the brain, tracing the lines of it in the air above with a smart stylus.

He can't return the sentiment. He doesn't _like_ her. He looked Isabel Maru up as soon as Diana dropped the bomb in their group chat; he knows who she is and what she's done. _Dr. Poison._ The gasses don't bother him so much as the rumors about human experimentation. He found nothing substantial outside of vintage wartime propaganda about a German witch, sure, whatever, but that was enough to make Vic wary.

And he's had just about enough to do with human experimentation that he just might lose it—well and truly _lose it,_ and probably at Diana, who has been nothing but good to him—if Dr. Prince tries anything funny with a cotton swab.

Vic knows that if he weren't so used to his father, the tense silence stretching out between them would be an awkward one. 

A cough sounds in the doorway behind him, and he barely has to turn his attention to Bruce's security system to know it's Diana.

"...Hello, dear," Isabel mutters under her breath, the endearment sounding closer to a curse, but Vic knows he and Diana both heard it.

"Isabel." Diana steps further into the room, until Vic can see her out of his remaining eye. It's a deliberate gesture, he can tell, and he appreciates it when she smiles at him. "Hello, Victor. Can I help you with anything?"

"Uh..."

So he hadn't exactly thought this through. Bruce mentioned Dr. Prince, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and now he is sandwiched between Wonder Woman and her probably-not-entirely-reformed war criminal wife. He feels his cheek grow warm—Diana _is_ a pretty, intelligent woman, no matter how married she is—and Dr. Prince snickers.

Of _course_ she would choose now to abandon her parademon delicatessen fantasy to watch him and her wife.

 ~~~~Dr. Prince grins a sharp, predatory grin at him. Diana levels a look at her over her Vic's shoulder.

"Your new body's capabilities are still evolving, are they not?"

Victor scowls at her. _Here come the cotton swabs_.

"Oh, don't look so put out," she says, ignoring Diana's hissed  _"Isabel."_ Instead, she lifts a tablet off the metal countertop behind her and waves it at him. "I just figured out the algorithm that determines in which order they evolve." She casts a sharp look at his arm. "Less unwelcome surprises this way." 

"How?" His father hadn't been able to do that math. Even _he_ hadn't been able to do that math with worlds of information in his brain. "I mean—"

"I'm quite skilled with languages. And math," she interrupts, waiting until Vic closes his mouth before she continues, "And what are computers but repetitive calculators running on repetitive languages?"

Diana huffs, but it sounds more pleased than anything. "Isabel, be nice."

Dr. Prince sets the tablet down and taps its surface. "It's all here. If you want it."

Vic decides to give her a chance.

 

* * *

  

The next time Barry swings by Gotham on his way to class, Diana's sitting at Bruce's kitchen table, spreading a new coat of shiny red polish on her nails. Beside her, a smallish woman is spreading jam on toast, her attention focused on the laptop propped open in front of her plate.

She reads a sentence he doesn't understand aloud, and both women scoff.

Barry points. "You're Isabel Maru."

"What gave me away?" The brow she raises at him and the deliberate way the corners of her lips rise make it clear, even to him, that she's teasing.

Diana swats at her like a gnat and beckons for Barry to join them at the table. "Good morning, Barry. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Careful, Diana. We wouldn't want to chip a nail." Isabel smirks at her wife, who rolls her eyes, and then both return their attention to Barry. "Well?"

"Er."  _Isn't it obvious?_ he thinks as he sits down and starts piling a plate high with toast and eggs. "Your- your wife. I mean—"

But he's saved from the pain of explaining when Isabel takes a bite of her toast and elbows Diana. "You were right about him. He's _sweet."_

It doesn't sound so much like a compliment, coming from her, but Diana smiles at him like he's won some kind of prize, and Isabel asks him his opinion on overwrought academic jargon when she has to read the same passage three times in a row for anyone at the table to make sense of what it says.

 

* * *

 

The next time he's called, Arthur enters Bruce's hidey-hole and immediately wants to turn around when a newcomer extends her hand to him.

"Arthur Curry," she says, clearly needing no introduction. "The one who sat on the lasso."

He needs a drink.

But when Clark arrives, he nods across the room at Dr. Prince and greets her with a polite little _ma'am_ , and the toothpick of a woman glares at him with such heat that Arthur decides he can sacrifice all the booze in Gotham to letting Clark drink away the burn.

"You _bruised_ my wife," she hisses, with such indignation that Clark raises his hands in front of him and takes several steps back.

 

* * *

 

After spending a few late evenings alone with her, Lois Lane decides that Dr. Prince's wardrobe is modest in a way that the woman herself is not.

Muted, earthy colors; tailoring that is neither too tight nor too loose; minimal details. Sleek, professional lines that compliment the straightforward character of the woman who wears them, with exceptions made only for warm cardigans and bulky lab gear. Even her formal lab coat is plain, with her initials embroidered on the breast pocket (black cotton thread, Times New Roman font) at Diana's insistence after Isabel grumbles again, for the third time in one month, that some incompetent fool has taken  _her_  lab coat instead of their own.

Isabel's initials spell  _IMP_  across her heart, and, Lois used to wonder if she knew that Diana encouraged the rest of Clark's improbable new team, the  _Justice League,_  not to point it out to her wife.

When they first met, her eyes followed Lois's gaze to her chest.

She definitely knew.


End file.
